


Rule Number One Thirteen

by jazzypizzaz



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: (see note at beginning for details), Angst, Canonical Character Death, Canonical Drug Use, Consent Issues, Episode: s06e22 Valiant, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8387953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzypizzaz/pseuds/jazzypizzaz
Summary: Before everything happened -- before the Valiant and its crew were destroyed by a Dominion attack gone awry, before Nog back in his bed on the station is tossing and turning after another sleepless night -- Nog and Jake were on the Shenandoah carrying out a relatively safe mission, and everything was fine. Nog had accepted that maybe he wasn’t attractive as a romantic partner (or maybe not yet, or maybe just not to Jake) and he was fine with that.  He had a career to build and goals to achieve, and he wasn’t going to let anyone distract him from his duty, and besides he was fine being alone.Everything had been fine.Based on  this prompt





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deathstar510](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathstar510/gifts).



> **Warnings:** (MILD SPOILERS ahead, but explanations for the Consent Issues tag follow.) 1) Tim is on uppers the whole time, which in canon affects his judgement. 2) Tim is in a position of power over Nog, and Nog has cultural baggage that makes him susceptible to that, so when they have sex there's some implicit pressure involved. Tim is also ambiguously manipulative. 3) At the end there's a scene where a character moves too far too fast for another character -- this situation is resolved quickly.
> 
> Character death and drug use are depicted about the same as in canon. Some of the dialogue and events are directly taken from the episode, but obviously not all. The timeline is messed with slightly.

Back on the station and technically safe from imminent danger -- or at least for the time being -- Nog lies on top of the covers of his bed wide awake at oh dark thirty in the morning for the third night in a row.  He’s mostly given up trying to sleep at this point, after being awakened yet again by memories of the living nightmare he had just survived.  

Staring at the ceiling, a series of images flash across his mind:  

The broad sturdy planes of Tim’s body, muscles flexing as he strips Nog down to the heart of him.  The fearlessness in Tim’s eyes as he promises to lead his crew to victory.  The beads of sweat on Tim’s brow as he pushes into Nog below him.  Tim’s straight alien teeth and his dauntless smile.  

The Dominion ship, not destroyed as anticipated, but firing back at them.  Exploding ship consoles and cadets diving out of the way. Tim’s vacant dead face, his limp body lying lifeless on the ground.

Nog jerks out of his haunting memories by a shrill squeaking sound he belatedly realizes is coming from his throat, an instinctive whimper.  He draws in a deep breath and lets out a loud sigh, turning over onto his side to try to shake himself loose from the grip of the flashbacks.

It doesn’t help.

Pajamas cover his body, but he can still feel what it was like to have Tim’s hot skin pressed up against him.  The feel of Tim’s hungry lips against his, that curious human intimacy of having mouths entangled as if Tim were trying to devour him from the inside out, and Nog letting him.  Tim’s hands, large and strong and sure as they map Nog’s naked frame.

Tim’s corpse, still warm as it lies crumpled on the floor of the bridge, pulseless.

Nog gulps to keep from whining aloud again.  Decisive, he swings his legs over the side of his bed and stands up, heading out of the room.

\-----

Before everything happened -- before the Valiant and its crew became nothing more than detritus scattered across the dead vacuum of space, before Nog back in his bed on the station tosses and turns after another sleepless night -- Nog and Jake were on the Shenandoah, and they were heading to Ferenginar, and everything was fine.  

It was an important task, delivering the proposal for an alliance with the Nagus, and one Nog was specially suited to performing.  As the only Ferengi in Starfleet, Nog was vitally aware at all times of the need to prove his utility in this regard.  He had a lot to contribute -- to the Federation and to the war effort --- and he deserved the uniform he wore.  This was one test among many to prove it.  

At that point, safe on the runabout and untouched by tragedy, Nog’s biggest problem was an argument with Jake about his role on this trip.  Jake had talked Nog into letting him come with -- Nog unable to resist Jake's charm, despite his better judgement -- but that didn’t mean Nog was going to let his nosy reporter friend with his meddlesome questions interfere with this diplomatic mission.  Nog was a Starfleet officer, and he was going to carry out his duty to the very best of his ability, and no cute boy batting his eyelashes at him -- not even Jake -- was going to screw this up for him.

So there they were flying through space together, best friends and roommates, carrying out a relatively safe mission, and everything was normal.  

Nog’s aching tenderness for Jake was tucked away, buried deep next to his heart -- and Jake with his dabo girls and Bajoran crushes was none the wiser -- but that’s how it had been for six years now.  Nog had accepted that maybe he wasn’t attractive as a romantic partner (or maybe not yet, or maybe not to Jake) and he was fine with that.  He had a career to build and goals to achieve, and he wasn’t going to let anyone distract him from that, and besides he was fine being alone.

Everything had been fine.

\------

But then a Jem’Hadar jammed their comms and drove them into Dominion space, and all of a sudden Nog and Jake were yanked from their now dangerous ship into the safety of their rescuers’.  The USS Valiant was a ship manned by kids --  Red Squad, elite of the elite, who Nog had always envied -- and in comparison to the heavy weight on their shoulders, Nog’s letter delivery no longer seemed like such an important responsibility.

From the moment Nog saw Captain Tim Watters -- sitting in the command chair like it was made for him, ordering around cadets on the bridge like he never questioned they would follow -- he could tell Watters had that kind of confidence that was hard to fake.  

Nog knew something about that himself.  

Nog had been underestimated his whole life -- because of his size, because of his father, because of his species -- but it was only because of Rule #205, a favorite of his uncle’s, that he had gotten this far: _Always enter a deal assuming the customer wants what you’re selling_ .  Its corollary, Rule #206, also applied: _Sometimes the shine of the gold plating matters more than the latinum within._  Success was dependent on confidence, and the projection of confidence -- no matter the insecurity within -- was largely a result of the energy one put forth.

And what Nog saw in that chair was a twenty-two year old Starfleet captain, commanding a starship behind enemy lines like he had been doing it for years.

What Nog saw was who he wanted to be.

Then Watters stood up, tall and broad shouldered, his movements deliberate and sure, to acknowledge the two wayward newcomers to the battleship, the wreckage of the defeated Jem’Hadar ship still floating on the viewscreen in the background.

“Welcome aboard,” Watters said to them, his smile straight-toothed and sincere, and he gave Nog a firm squeeze on the shoulder, warmth spreading from his strong fingers across the plain of Nog’s back.

Jake was sent off to med bay for his hurt wrist, skeptical face appraising the youth of his surroundings, while Nog met up with Watters in the ready room for a debriefing of the Valiant’s situation.  Red Squad was young, but capable, and they were bravely soldiering as if the fate of the Federation depended on it.  And maybe it did.

"As of this moment, you are Chief Engineer.  Congratulations,” Watters told Nog, grinning at him as if he had been expecting the Great Material Continuum to provide the crew with a new engineer this whole time, and that it surely must be Nog.

To be part of the crew of the Valiant -- with their pride, their noble purpose, and the leadership of this square-jawed, gallant captain -- was everything Nog wanted.

“Excuse me, sir. I, I don't think I'm ready for this,” Nog stammered.  A brash audacious belief in his strengths was one thing, but pushing himself past his actual capabilities and causing them to fail their mission was quite another.  The times he had witnessed his uncle promise far more than he could deliver had taught him _some_ circumspection, along with that tenacious confidence.

“None of us were ready for the responsibility thrust upon us, Commander. But each of us found a way to rise to the occasion, do the job that had to be done. Just have faith in yourself, faith in your shipmates, and everything will be fine.”

If Nog had faith in anyone, it was this flint-eyed captain, a mantle of heroism resting on his shoulders.  Captain Tim Watters who, for his part, didn’t give Nog’s lobes or his ridges a second glance.  Unlike most people Nog came across at the Academy or even on the station, Watters gave Nog the faith and trust he always had to work twice as hard to earn, all without question.  Maybe Watters saw something in him that Nog didn’t even know he had, and if that was the case, he couldn’t let this opportunity go to waste.

“Yes, sir.  I will, sir.”  Nog vowed not to let his captain down, this boy -- this man -- if it’s the last thing he did.

Then Watters told him the Valiant was dedicated to carrying out their dangerous mission behind enemy lines, without Starfleet’s knowledge of the change in command.  Warning bells chime in Nog’s gut at what he might be getting into, but if anyone could pull that off, Nog wanted to believe that it was Red Squad with Watters as their captain.

Watters who, when Nog took the Red Squad insignia, had nodded like he never expected Nog to turn him down, like he would expect nothing less of Nog than to meet every challenge facing him.

His captain had faith in him, so Nog would have faith in his captain.

And just like that Nog fell in love.

\------

Later in the engine room, Nog informed Watters’ of his proposed solution to repair their warp drive.

“I like you.  You’re exactly what this ship needs right now.”  Watters appraised him with a tilt of his head, scanning Nog up and down with a quick glance.  Nog’s treacherous heart thumped in his chest at the praise.  “Night shift takes over in an hour.  If you come to a stopping point--”

Nog puffed out his chest and opened his mouth -- unlike the crew, Nog was fresh and well-rested, so there’s no reason he couldn’t work all night if they needed him to -- but Watters placed his hand on Nog’s shoulder, fingers firm and heavy on Nog’s small frame, interrupting him.

“Find a stopping point later tonight, and meet up with me to fill me in on your progression.  i want to act on getting to warp speed as soon as we can.”  Watters’ thumb grazed the skin of Nog’s neck, as he gave an encouraging squeeze, and Nog’s protests died on his tongue.

Watters’ dark gaze burned into him for a few moments, and Nog tried not to squirm under the scrutiny (under Watters’ strong hand).  “Yes sir, I will report to you later, sir.”

“Good.  Dismissed.”  Watters smiled with a wry curl of his lips then exited, leaving Nog feeling dazed and hot all over and disinclined to assess why.  

\------

After several hours, the engineering crew was still immersed in carrying out the repairs Nog ordered.  There was one last glitch for which Nog needed to find a solution, but he had been concentrating on it for too long with no progress, so in the meantime he figured he may as well follow through on the other part of Captain Watters’ orders.

Commander Farris informed Nog that Watters had already gone to bed, however, so now Nog stood outside the door of Watters’ quarters, stomach bunching with fluttering moths as he extended his hand towards the control panel.  Nog had commed Watters, who, voice hoarse from sleep, told him to stop by his room.  Being invited to the captain’s quarters in the middle of the night was in direct violation of Starfleet command guidelines -- section 5 subsection 12a: Nog had memorized the booklet -- but they weren’t _rules_ , just recommended procedure.  Far be it from Nog to question his captain’s decision, even if it was unorthodox.  He told himself Watters probably didn’t get much time to himself on this mission and had to grab rest when he could, so it didn’t mean anything about his relationship with Nog specifically that Watters hadn’t asked to meet in a less personal space.  

Nog wasn’t sure if that made him feel more relieved or disappointed.

Watters buzzed Nog in.  He was still in his uniform, but bare-chested with the top half unzipped and tied around his waist, his hair ruffled as if he had been lying down.  It was, for a Ferengi male who grew up in a household that never wore less than three layers even when sleeping, an especially scandalous state of undress.  Nog did his best to remind himself that Watters was human and had different customs, but it didn't keep his mouth from going dry or the tingle from creeping through his lobes at the perversity of that uncovered alien masculinity.

“Mister Nog?” Watters said, rubbing his hand over his face blearily.

“Did I wake you again sir?  I apologize, but you did say --” Nog said, flustered.

“Oh right, of course.”  Watters waved his hand dismissively and beckoned Nog inside.  “We all have sacrifices we make for the good of the ship, and I don’t require much rest anyway.  What can you tell me about the repairs?  I could use some good news.”

Nog began to inform him about the state of the deuterium injectors, doing his best to keep from staring at Watters’ state of undress, but didn’t get far before he noted with some alarm that Watters’ heart rate was far more elevated than he had observed as normal in humans.  His lobes picked up an irregular rhythm as well.  Perhaps it was a medical condition of some sort -- Nog was an engineer, not a doctor -- but the way Watters kept his jaw clenched and darted his eyes about was also worrisome.  Nog trailed off into silence when Watters gripped the side of his own neck, grimacing as he tried to massage at the muscles.  

“Are you alright, sir?  Perhaps I could be of service --”  

Nog couldn’t even fathom the toll that the weight of responsibility had taken on Watters over the past eight months, but he knew Watters deserved to relax, if only for a moment.  Guidelines on professional conduct were there for a reason, and as the first of his species in Starfleet Nog usually tried to follow every rule to the letter.  However he found his commitment to this rigidity wavering under the circumstances.

If Nog could help, he had the obligation to try.

Nog darted forward, hands outstretched with the intention to help work out the tension in Watters’ shoulders, but jerked back into an automatic cringe before actually making contact. True, Ferengi don’t have much cultural conception of personal space, but growing up surrounded by temperamental Cardassians had instilled in Nog a healthy wariness of other species’ boundaries.  

(Besides, Watters didn’t need to know how much of this eagerness was informed by Nog’s completely inappropriate compulsion to run his hands over Watters’ broad shoulders, to feel the sparse wiry tufts of human fur on his chest.)

“What I mean is, if I am not overstepping, sir, you appear to be carrying the stress of command in your shoulders.  I have good hands, and I-I could help.  Sir.”

Watters quirked an eyebrow, and Nog fought to maintain strong eye contact and not fidget too much, despite all his instincts telling him to either flee or grovel in response to what would surely be a reprimand on unprofessional conduct.

But Watters chuckled, and Nog grinned in relief.  “You’re a real breath of fresh air on this overburdened ship, Nog...  I suppose the pressure of the situation has been distracting me.  Very well.”

Watters sat down in a chair and Nog scurried behind him.  As he kneaded at Watters’ tense muscles, Nog expounded in greater detail than perhaps necessary about the lateral impulse control system, but he wanted to make a good impression and prove that he was focused on the professional pretense for this meeting, not the warm smooth skin beneath hands.  

Watters groaned under his touch as Nog massaged out a particularly gnarly knot.  Nog halted mid-sentence in his explanation of the coil emitters involved as his breath caught in his throat.

“You weren’t kidding about those hands, you’re quite strong,” Watters said with an air of surprise.  He placed his hand where Nog’s had stopped in its task on the shoulder, stroking Nog’s fingers as if assessing their strength.

The back of Nog’s mind filled in _for a Ferengi, for your size_ , but Nog dismissed this, choosing instead to be flattered at the praise.  After all, Watters wasn’t like other cadets Nog had met at the Academy.  He was better.  “If you visit Deep Space Nine with me, I will be happy to share my holo-fitness program with you.  I have a two hour routine consisting of twelve different exercises, calibrated to--”

“That might not be for quite some time, Nog,” Watters said sharply, twisting his head to shoot a frown over his shoulder.  Nog shifted on his feet, embarrassed that it sounded like he had forgotten the seriousness and immediacy of the Valiant’s current situation.  “We need to stay focused on the here and now.”  

“Of course, sir,” Nog said hastily, his heart thumping with the desperate need to regain his captain’s approval, even as his stomach twisted with nerves at how this meeting was steadily spiraling off course.  

Then Tim’s eyes softened, and when he smiled, it was like the warm buzz of electricity after connecting a power co-processor with an adaptive holoamplifier.  Nog could feel the current arcing between them and leaned in despite himself, Tim’s unridged alien face so close to his that Nog could hear the blood in his veins.

“Whatever fates are guiding the Valiant on its mission, I’m glad they saw fit to bring you aboard,” Tim said softly.

As if he were under the effects of a malfunctioning anti-grav unit, Nog closed the distance between them, nuzzling against Tim’s nose, relishing how its smooth boniness felt against his own nose ridges.

Tim sucked in a sharp breath through his nostrils then tilted to meet his lips to Nog’s, moving against Nog’s mouth with intensity.  Nog’s heart thumped hard enough he was sure even Tim’s tiny human lobes could hear it.

Nog, awkward and overenthusiastic, attempted to mimic Tim’s movements -- _oh this is what human kissing feels like_ \-- but Tim didn’t hesitate to take control,  nipping at his lips, sucking at his tongue, guiding Nog to submit to his passion.   

Before Nog could catch his breath, however, Tim stood up, clutching Nog against him, unzipping Nog’s uniform, riding his hands underneath Nog’s undershirt, against his trembling skin, until Nog was dizzy with sensation.  The electricity of Tim’s demanding feverish mouth against his sizzled, so that it was like Nog was in a depressurized shuttlebay, gasping for air, vacuum of space closing in on him.  

“The ears, right?” Tim said, running his fingertips along Nog’s throbbing lobes, and Nog’s knees buckled.

“Wait,” Nog managed to breathe out.  

Tim paused, an impatient expression on his face. “What’s the problem, Nog?”

Nog had a plan, and it didn’t involve getting entangled with someone in command over him, in the middle of the war, at 0200 hours, barely half a day after he met him.  

Nog had a plan: for who he was willing to commit himself to, for what his life would be like in ten years, for the productive mentor relationships he would cultivate with his superiors.  

(Nog had a plan, for the day when he could risk telling Jake he loved him, and Jake would love him back, but that day might never come, and here was another boy right in front of him, stars in his eyes.)

“We have to rise to the occasion and not be afraid to take risks when they present themselves.  This moment is all we have for sure,” Tim said.

Nog had a plan, but with Tim’s hands still resting on his lobes, that strange human handsomeness focused on him, _on him_ , he couldn't for the life of him remember what the point of that plan was.

“I’m not afraid, I-I don’t know if I’m ready.”  

The sound vibrations of Tim’s racing pulse ran through Nog’s throbbing lobes, and it was too much all at once -- too much too fast for someone who as a kid grew up lonely and unseen, who even now hadn’t done more than cuddle with his friend or watch Bajoran girls on the Promenade.  Yet here Nog was, an ensign promoted to Chief of Engineering by a swaggering boy captain he had known for mere hours, now alone with him in his bedroom in the middle of the night, this captain’s confident hands conducting heat like thermoregulators through the coils of his lobes.

“We could die tomorrow.  You may never get to be ready.” Tim whispered closely, warm breath brushing at his inner ear hairs, and Nog moaned with longing, hesitance crumbling.  “Come to bed with me.”

Nog may have had a plan, but he’s never been one to let opportunity pass him by.

 _Stay focused on the here and now_ , Nog told himself.   _This moment is all we have_.

“Yes,” Nog said. “Yes, sir.”

Tim guided him every step of the way, showing him how humans share pleasure -- _bend your knees like this, put your legs here, don’t move unless I tell you, trust me, relax, relax_ \-- and Nog put his faith in Tim’s leadership, opening himself up without question -- _yes Tim, like this Tim?, yes Tim_ \-- and their pulses raced faster and faster, nearing warp speed, until a moment skipped, he gasped, _Tim_ , and just like that it’s over.

Curled up next to the warmth of Tim’s sticky body, Nog accidentally drifted off to sleep for several hours, the adrenaline of the day crashing down on him.  When he reawakened, groggy and disoriented several hours later, the bed was cold and empty.

\------

Back at the Engine Room by 0600, Nog focused on finishing the last several repairs, the after-flush of sex still on his cheeks.  The engineering crew didn’t even ask where he had been -- maybe they assumed Nog had gone to bed after his report, which after all was technically true -- but Nog was uncomfortably aware of what exactly he had been _doing_ in that bed.  He felt different now, like his body was no longer his but instead belonged to someone new, keenly aware of the stiffness in his step, the oversensitive tingle of his nerves.

Several frazzled hours later, in which a preoccupied Nog dropped his reverse-ratchet twice and banged his head on overhanging equipment three times, they were finally able to speed the Valiant past the slow slog of warp 3.2.

Still distracted, he scurried off down the corridor towards the bridge to request further instruction when he bumped into just the person he was hoping to see.

“Hey, Tim!”  Nog lit up and bounded over to his captain, grabbing Tim’s arm.  Tim shook him off with a perplexed look, and Nog, thinking maybe it was a human personal space thing, took a belated step back.  “Last night, you left before--” Nog hesitated as he realized the first officer, Karen Farris, accompanied Watters.  “Have you eaten lunch yet?  Join me in the Replimat, Tim.  Now that we can reach warp, I can go over my proposals to increase our phaser and shield efficiencies--”

“We just came from there.”  Farris folded her arms, glaring at Nog.  “And excuse me, I don’t know who informed you about the Starfleet procedure for chain of command, but you will refer to him as sir or Captain.”

“At ease, Commander,” Tim said.  Nog jerked his head towards him expecting support, but Watters shot him a stern look.   “Mister Nog, it’s important you abide by proper terms of address.  It’s a sign of respect, and a sign of faith in leadership.  It’s good for crew morale to not let... personal entanglements intrude into our workspace.”  Watters’ heart beat faster and more irregular than it had been, as if Nog’s transgression had truly irritated him.

Nog’s cheeks grew hot at the reprimand, and the allusion to their time together.  He glanced at Farris, embarrassed she was witness to this exchange.  She looked about as tightly wound as she always did, more annoyed than anything else.  “Y-yes sir, of course.  It won’t happen again.”  He tilted his head.  “It’s just, sir, if I could talk to you about last night --”

“Last night, you reported to me about the deuterium injector startup routine, and this morning you were able to complete your repairs.  Plus, I’m feeling relaxed and confident about our situation now, thanks to you.  Your… _work_ was essential for the ship’s mission here, and I commend you for that.”

Watters’ sharp eyes burned into him, flashing with focused intensity just like they did above him in bed, and Nog’s stomach twisted, not sure what he was supposed to be reading into this statement.   _His work_ , _for the mission…_

Nog’s anxiety must have showed on his face, because then Tim leaned in, said quietly, “And you are important to _me_ ,” and winked.

Nog relaxed, a wide grin spreading across his face, then -- Farris standing to the side checking a padd -- he schooled himself into a more serious expression.  He drew himself up to his full height, rigid and formal, and barked out, “Glad to be of service.  Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“At ease, chief.”  Tim gave him a small, fond smile.  “Prepare whatever efficiencies you deem prudent, and be prepared to report to the ready room at the first sighting of the enemy ship we’re tracking.”

Nog chest bloomed with warm, but as he watched Tim leave, the elation at the acknowledgement deflated and cooled until Nog was left feeling insubstantial, like a transporter buffer had only transferred half his matter and now parts of him were misplaced.

(Watters said Nog was important to him, but in what way?  Nog thought he had left behind relationships based solely on utility when he eschewed a future in the Ferengi business world.  But wasn’t interpersonal importance still based at least somewhat on practical impact on other people’s lives, even in the Federation?  This is certainly the case for the Captain of the Valiant’s relationship to its Chief Engineer, but what is Nog’s importance to the warm-smiled boy, to _Tim_?)

Nog stood there discontented in a way he couldn’t quite place, like there was something vital he had missed and now he was smaller because of it.  Jake came up behind him, furrowed eyes flicking between Nog’s expression and Watters’ retreating back.  “What was that about?”

“N-nothing.  Ship repairs,”  Nog whipped around, the flush of embarrassment still on his cheeks.

Jake raised his eyebrows.  “Ship repairs?  What, you working for the crew now?”

Nog snapped out of his contemplation to point proudly to the pin on his uniform, glad for the distraction of bragging to his friend.  “My Red Squad insignia. Oh, and in case you haven't noticed, this would be my new rank. Lieutenant Commander Nog, Chief Engineer. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

“We just got here last night, and Watters puts you in charge of the Engine Room?”

“Captain Watters is used to making quick decisions. He felt I was the right man for the job, so he promoted me,” Nog said, defensive, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Even still, it’s a little fast… but okay.”  Jake inclined his head towards the Replimat and they started walking.  “Hey have you noticed anything weird about Watters?  Like if he’s acting, I don’t know, jittery or irritable or something?”

“Why would you say that?”  Nog said, overly loud and a passing Vulcan in science blues raised her brow at him before continuing on.

“Something seems off about him... maybe it’s nothing.”  Jake spread his hands to placate Nog’s angry expression.  “Hey where were you last night?  We were assigned the same quarters -- everyone has to double up here you know -- but you never came around.”

“Oh, Tim has his own quarters,” Nog said without thinking, then at Jake’s puzzled reaction, averted his eyes before answering.  “I was with the captain --”

“ _With_ him?”

“Last night I mean, in his room, I was giving a report about--”  Nog glanced at Jake and realized all his stammering would only make it more obvious he was hiding something.  Jake had once told him friends didn’t keep secrets, and if Nog couldn’t tell him, that would only prove Jake’s concerns correct. “If you must know, I slept there also.  And we… kissed, human style.  Tim and I.”

“So what, we're in the middle of a war, behind enemy lines, and you find yourself a field commission _and_ a boyfriend, overnight?  Now that's efficiency.”

“He's not my, I mean we had sex, I assume he's my boyfriend, but, well we are in a war, but what’s real is, he said I was important to him.”  The more Nog said, the higher Jake’s eyebrows raised on his wrinkled forehead, and the less sense Nog could tell he was making.  “And he’s important to me,” Nog added petulantly.

“Are you sure you don’t think this is moving a little too fast?  It’s not like you, Nog.”

Nog felt panic and irritation rising in his chest, temper flaring like a sonic subcore processor about to short out.  “I knew this would happen, I knew it.  As soon as I found someone else who might love me, I knew you would act like this, you would find a reason to disapprove.  Well not everything is about you Jake.  Just because you are my roommate at the station does not mean I do everything with your approval in mind.”

“What are you even talking about?  I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about _you_.  He’s your commanding officer!  We’re in the middle of a war, and on a ship run by cadets!  He promotes you, then you _sleep_ with him?  You realize that doesn’t seem right.”

“According to Starfleet Command Guidelines, section 5 subsection 13b, commanding officers are not _strictly_ forbidden from conducting personal relationships with members of their crew --”

“But they have to use discretion.  I’m telling you something isn’t right with Watters.  His plan doesn’t add up, and, Nog, one of the crewmen told me she saw him popping pills--”

“Your _source,”_ Nog spit out the worse like a curse, “must have been feeding you the lies you wanted to hear.  Captain Watters is _twice_ the man you’ll ever be, hiding behind your notebook, probing into people’s personal lives.  You’re just jealous.”

“I’m worried that’s all.”  Jake changed his tone abruptly, from confused to sympathetic.  “You haven’t been on a date since, well since we agreed not to go on double dates anymore, at least that you’ve told me about, and I know you Nog, you like playing by the rules, and you’re smart, but what, suddenly you’re too blinded by -- by this -- this hubristic _tool_ who’s going to get us all killed.  It’s not you.”

“Hubber-stick is not even a word, you made that up.  And besides --”

But Nog was saved from having to defend Watters’ honor further by the clanging of klaxons, calling all personnel to the ready room.

The Dominion ship, the subject of their investigative mission, had been located.

\-------

All the events after that moment now rattle around like loose screws in Nog’s mind -- disjointed flashes of the ship’s steady foreboding descent towards inevitable tragedy.

(Maybe Captain Sisko _wouldn’t_ have made the same choice as Watters, wouldn’t choose to destroy a new enemy threat without backup or circumspection, but maybe Jake was only skeptical in his rebuke of Watters because that was his job as a reporter and a civilian.  But Captain Sisko wasn’t here, Watters was, and Watters was Nog’s captain, and it was Nog’s duty to follow him wherever he led.)

There’s the sinking feeling in Nog’s stomach that he chose to ignore, the tightening in his chest that he told himself was a typical Ferengi panic response to danger that it was his duty to get under control.

There’s the triumphant look on Watters’ face, as their bold risk appeared to have paid off, Dominion ship lost in an explosion on the viewscreen -- a look that exposed the dangerous overconfidence that had been Watters’ trademark all along, that Nog had chosen deliberately to ignore.  A look that was premature and vanished instantly at the enemy ship emerging from the fire.

There’s the long silent shuttlepod trip away from the doomed vessel, with Nog unable to meet Jake’s eyes, focusing instead on the final push to make it out of this whole mess alive.

There’s the sole surviving crewmember, who even after the death of all her coworkers and friends, still defended Watters, forcing Nog to admit aloud that Tim was, in the end, a bad captain.  That sometimes heroes fail, that no one’s destiny was written in the stars, that putting trust in someone didn’t ensure that they would prevail.

This all echoes through Nog’s head -- spectres encroaching on his every waking moment, moments he buries deep inside, hoping to forget -- but what keeps resurfacing to the forefront of his mind is the small curl of Tim’s lips as he smiled just for Nog, and what it didn’t mean.

\-------

It’s been several days since the Valiant, but he and Jake haven’t talked much.  Nog has been subdued, trudging through the day in a hazy sleep-deprived fog, avoiding any conversation not with Chief O’Brien or Rom about engineering matters.  Nog had let himself be taken in by Watters’ charm, his attention and flattery, and now Nog is alone and alive, the crew of the Valiant died in vain.

He doesn’t think he could bear it if Jake says “I told you so.”

Jake for his part has made it a point to be physically present in the common room whenever Nog might be around, but pointedly keeps a respectful distance, long legs sprawled out on the couch and mind immersed in the writer’s padd on his lap.  Every so often, however, Nog catches glimpses of Jake watching him out of the corner of his eyes.  There’s hesitant pity on Jake’s face, the lines around his mouth tense as he bites back from saying anything, as he refrains from smothering Nog with unwanted sympathy or unwelcomed questions.

“My door’s always unlocked.  You know that right?” had been the only indirect offer Jake had given him.  From this, Nog knew he meant: _I know you’re not sleeping at night.  I want to be there for you, and I don’t know how, but if you need me I’m always here._

Nog had been grateful for the space -- everything is still too much and any sincerity threatens to topple his world around him and he’s barely keeping it together as it is -- but now it’s his third restless night, and he doesn’t know what else to do, so Nog knocks softly before padding into Jake’s room.  

Jake, tucked into his bed, gives a soft snuffle and blinks up at the intruder, then sleepily makes room for Nog beside him.  Jake closes his eyes again, and Nog climbs under the covers, lying there still for a moment, listening.  He can hear the slow regular rhythm of Jake’s heart thumping away in his chest, the restful intake and release of air from Jake’s lungs, all the sounds of vital life.  

Jake still half-asleep pulls him close, and his arms are warm, so warm, strangely long and lean compared to Tim’s broad strength, and now all Nog can think of, again, is Tim’s cold and silent body, floating through space blown to bits by the Dominion.  Nog shivers as the chill that had settled over his skin since the incident melts, and Nog can’t take it, he can’t keep wearing thin the same haunted circles in his mind, he’s been so cold and isolated and _alone_ , and it’s too much, but Jake is _here_ and _warm_ and _alive_ , and maybe what Nog needs is to lose himself in that heat to drown out the ghosts in his head.

Nog wriggles in closer, trying to bury himself into the feel of Jake, then turns onto his side so Jake and him are chest to chest.  His Jake, his best friend, face peaceful and handsome and breathing...

Nog does what he’s dreamt of for years now, and kisses him.

Nog’s lips are tentative at first, barely touching Jake's, and Jake makes a surprised noise, then kisses back dreamily, eyes closed, and it’s everything Nog had dreamed of, less than a week ago, _before_ , and every last reserve Nog had melts away.  Nog kisses harder, desperately like a debt-ridden man offered a free bucket of tube grubs, tasting him, opening his mouth to probe his tongue into him, to run his tongue over Jake's human teeth.  

Jake tenses at the abrupt change of pace, under Nog’s intensity, and his eyes flutter open.  Nog rolls over so he's half on top of Jake, sucking hot kisses into the crook of Jake’s neck as he moves his body against him.  

“Wait, N-Nog?  What are--?”  Jake mutters, voice hoarse from sleep, and grasps Nog’s elbows, face twisted in confusion.

“Shh, shh.  I can make you feel good, it’s okay.  We’re alive, and we’re here.  We should take advantage of that.  Everything’s okay.”  Nog kisses at Jake’s ear and races his hand over Jake’s chest, his flat stomach, thumbing at the waistband of Jake’s pants, his movements jerking and frantic.  Nog’s heart pounds in his lobes, his blood hot and pulsing, and Jake is warm and right there and _so alive_ , and all Nog wants is to be able to lose himself in the sensations of Jake’s body against his, to try to forget that this could all be taken away at any moment.

“Nog, stop, Nog -- what are you doing?”  Jake grips at Nog’s arms harder, twisting them away.  

Nog hastily kneels back on the bed, hands joined in a cringe, and Jake pushes himself up into a sitting position.  Nog pleads, his voice strained and wavery. “Please, relax, I’ll help you relax.  Just trust me, I love you.  Please, we could die tomorrow.”  

Jake wipes at his confused, sleep-caked eyes.  ‘You can’t start kissing me while I’m not really awake and tell me _that_ and expect me to want to --”

“Please, I want to feel alive.  I want to forget,” Nog half yells at him, then the dam of emotions he’s kept at bay these past few days crumble down, and he breaks down into sobs, his body convulsing with the weight of everything.

Jake stares at him a moment, stunned, then places a tentative hand on Nog’s back.  Nog crumples down into Jake’s arms, his tears drenching the front of Jake’s sleep shirt, and Jake hugs him tight against his chest.  “Hey, shh, it’s okay.  I’ve got you.  Is this -- is this about -- him?”

“He lov -- he saw me, he saw my potential.  Maybe -- in the end that doesn't mean anything, but --” Nog says eventually, in between gasping sobs.  “He liked me, he must have.  I didn’t know if I’d find anyone who would like me, like that at least, but now he’s -- he’s _gone_.  I can leave now if you want, Jake, I’m so sorry, I just wanted to forget, for at least a night.”  

"It's okay; stay with me."  Jake rubs Nog’s back and places a tentative kiss against his forehead, and Nog cries noisily against him.  Jake hugs Nog tighter and tighter, making soft shushing noises in comfort, and they stay there for a few moments.

When Nog calms down, hiccuping slightly, he continues quietly: “I didn’t want to make the same--” _The same mistake my father made with my mother.  That my uncle makes over and over again._  “I thought my first time would be with someone who wanted _me_ , who would stick around.  I had it all planned out.  I thought --”  Nog gulps, his voice cracking.  “I thought it would be with you.”

Jake doesn't say anything at first, but he doesn’t let go of Nog either, so Nog tries in vain to bite back the panic welling up in his throat.  This was a mistake, a dreadful mistake, and now Jake hates him and he’ll never want to talk to him again, and Nog will be alone and friendless and --

“I didn’t know that.  I wish… I wish I had known that,” Jake says slowly, as if choosing his words carefully.  Nog pulls away so he can see Jake’s face, thoughtful and concentrated, and Jake keeps his arm circled around Nog’s back.  “But I’m still here, Nog.  Whatever happens, we’ll be in each other’s lives forever, okay?  As long as we’re both...”  Jake trails off.

“Both alive,” Nog fills in flatly. “Both in one piece.”

Jake nods, uncomfortable.  “Yeah, that.  We’ll be friends -- or maybe more someday, but not, not now okay? -- we’ll be together forever; I’m not going anywhere.”  

 _If we both survive the war.  If the Dominion doesn’t destroy us all first._  It’s small comfort, but it’s the best Jake can do, and Nog tries his best to accept that.

“Okay,” Nog says quietly.  “Okay, I believe you.”  

Tim may have been wrong about the Valiant being special, about its purpose on a noble mission vital to the victory of the Alpha Quadrant, but, like Watters himself with Ramirez before him, Nog can carry on that mantle of heroic responsibility in his memory.  He can learn how to have faith again -- in his own judgement, in his allies and loved ones -- because maybe that’s the only way to keep going.

Nog falls asleep in Jake’s arms that night, his fractured heart held together by promises and warmth.  He wakes up alive the next day, and the day after that, and every day he tries his best to carry out the duty of living.

**Author's Note:**

> [Follow up fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8635384), about Nog growing up.


End file.
